


Past Lives

by deaddybear



Series: Lost Time [2]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Makin out, Poor Willy, Pre-Klok, Underage Drug Use, Unrequited Love, he luvs pickl, just guys bein doods, magnus being crazay, spoilers for lost time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deaddybear/pseuds/deaddybear
Summary: Before he ends up finding true love in Nathan, Pickles has to navigate through all the loves that could have been.
Relationships: Antonio "Tony" DiMarco Thunderbottom/Pickles the Drummer, Magnus Hammersmith/Pickles The Drummer, Nathan Explosion/Pickles the Drummer, William Murderface/Pickles the Drummer
Series: Lost Time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092611
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	1. murderface

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a prequel, but meant to be read after "lost time." it has spoilers for how lt ended, so be wary if you haven't read it yet! there's only going to be 3-4 chapters in this, and they're all shorter than Lost Time chapters; when this fic is done, the first sequel chapter will be posted :)

On a warm summer day in 1980-something, Murderface told his grandma to go fuck herself. He honestly can’t even remember what tipped him over the edge with her - they were fighting about their usual stupid shit, and it just slipped out. She had his ass on the sidewalk with his bags packed almost instantly, and instead of trudging back to the house and demanding she let him back inside, he flipped up both middle fingers and yelled: 

“I DONT NEED YOU! WAIT UNTIL YOU SCHEE ME ON TV ASCH THE MOSCHT FAMOUSCH GUITARISCHT ON THE FUCKING PLANET! I’M GONNA BE A FUCKING SCHTAR, AND YOURE GONNA WATCH ME FUCKING _SCHINE_!” 

Murderface hates effort, but he’d do just about anything out of spite. So, he gets on a bus and fucks off to Los Angeles. He has enough money in his bank account to hole himself up in some shitty motel, and even though the bed looks stained and kinda creepy-crawly, by the time that the bus ride is over he’s never been so happy to lay down in his life. He takes a moment, curled up in ominously stiff sheets, and he stares at the ceiling. He’s in Los fucking Angeles right now. He left the hellhole that was his grandma’s house - something he’d been dreaming about for as long as he could remember - and he made it. A half-hysterical laugh bubbles out of his throat, and he puts his hands over his face. Holy shit. He’s really just gonna wing this, isn’t he? 

He knows his most important issue right now, is his lack of money. And it takes him a day of weeping and moping to finally bring himself to do it, but - he knows he’s gotta apply for a job. He really, really doesn’t like working. But his dislike for being wrong outweighs his dislike for labor, and he refuses to go back to the old hag, so he throws on his best dress-shirt and shorts combo, and applies around. 

It takes him three days to finally get a callback. He applied at a couple offices - they seemed pretty ritzy, and sitting at a desk all day didn’t seem like it’d be that much work. He applied at a few retail stores, because it’d be an easy way to meet chicks and again, doesn’t seem too labor intensive. He applied at one fast food joint, because he smelled the fries in the air and had a moment of weakness, and of course, that’s the venue that decided they want him to work there. 

He accepts when they call him, because he can’t keep staying in this nasty ass hotel without any money coming in, and when he hangs up he screams into his pillow for a good ten minutes. Burzum’s is a totally lucrative job and all, but Murderface fucking hates doing work. And his ego tells him he should be embarrassed about working such a menial, not-metal job - and one that requires him to do things. But he’s going to get money, free food, and the opportunity to spit into people’s burgers every day. Who could ask for anything more?

He works at Burzuums for three days before they work the same shift. He’d been shoveling fries into his mouth as he stood boredly behind the cash register, thinking about how he was in one of the most bustling cities in the country and nothing interesting has happened to him - and then the door chimes. In walks a grungy-looking redhead; he’s in his stained-to-hell work uniform, a too-big leather jacket thrown over it, hat slapped over an insane mane of hair, and there were gaping holes in his battered Vans.

When he strolls over to the register as if he’s the most important goddamn kid to ever walk into Burzum’s, Murderface blanches a bit. He has a really, unsettlingly attractive face. Murderface instantly screams internally at his own gay thoughts, but come on! That cute little nose, the wild red hair, bright green eyes, the smattering of freckles...to someone who’s lived their entire life as ugly, it’s almost infuriating. 

“Heeey, chief. You Will?” He asks, endearingly crooked smile on his face as he sidles over to the register. “Cyndi was s’posed to be trainin’ ya, but she got sick - aka fuckin’ hungover - and needed me to fill. I’m yer teacher fer the day, dood!” 

“Well fuck me,” Murderface breathes, eyes darting around, because how the hell is he supposed to get through an entire 8-4 shift with those big eyes staring at him like that? The accent just makes it worse - especially paired with that cute little crooked smirk, and fuck. No. He absolutely refuses to have gay thoughts about the fucking cashier at Burzum’s. He has _standards_. And also he’s not gay. Yeah. 

“Whet was thet?” 

“Nothing! Jeshush!” Murderface instantly snaps defensively, arms crossed tight against his chest. 

“Ooookey. Heh. Yer a weird one, huh?” He grins, with no malice, but Murderface still feels his cheeks burn at the comment. 

“Fuck you!” 

The kid laughs. He offers him a hand, hair flipping into his face as he grins, “I’m Pickles.” 

“Picklesch?” Murderface repeats in disbelief, wanting to comment on how that’s a really weird fucking name, but. His last name _is_ Murderface, after all. He hesitates before slowly taking his hand and giving it a rough shake. It’s a weird thought, but he does look like a Pickles. “Juscht ‘Pickles.’” 

“Just Pickles, dood,” he winks, letting go of Murderface’s hand as he hops behind the counter, and the two of them get to work. 

-

Murderface tries not to get too involved with his whole tragic backstory, because that would be dangerously close to caring. But apparently, Pickles got fed up with his home life and walked the fuck out too. They actually had a lot more in common then Murderface ever excepted - shitty families that they ditched for LA, dreams of being in a band, passion for shredding their respective axes. Once you get past how annoying he is, Pickles really isn’t like, the worst possible friend Murderface could be making. Except for one fatal flaw that this kid has, which seems to rear its ugly head just about every day - isn’t he a little young to be so...into drugs? Apparently fucking not. 

“Hey, dude. I’m goin’ to a ‘lil party t’nite. Jest like, a couple’a buddies I gaht from these cool drum sessions downtown thet I sneak into,” Pickles blathers as the two of them clock out, and that’s another thing - the kid’s always _talking_. “Yeeeah, it’s a pretty cool scene! And heeey, laaahts of the white stuff, yanno. You ever been to a party in LA?” 

“Uh, no. Soundsh like a great time,” Murderface mutters sarcastically, rolling his eyes, because it most definitely does not sound like any type of fun to him. Pickles is the same age as him, but he finds out pretty fucking quick that he’s gotta be this guy’s babysitter. He’s always getting into trouble - pounding back whiskey on the job, doing coke off the toilet bowl, not-so-subtly yanking some money out of the cash register before he goes back to...wherever he came from. He’s almost feral in his wildness, like a stray cat or something, and Murderface isn’t quite sure if he should take him in or just leave him to the wolves. 

In the end, he ends up going to the stupid LA party. He knows if he lets Pickles go by himself the redhead’s gonna fucking wind up laying starfish in the middle of the busiest street in town like last time he hit a party - he’d called Murderface’s hotel from a payphone, slurring nonsense and barely able to get out a location. How did Murderface end up being the responsible one? And how did he become the person that Pickles started calling when he’d get into a drugged-out rut? 

Murderface keeps an eye on Pickles at the party, because he feels like he’s obligated to. Just what he’s always dreamed - working a closing shift at the local fast food joint, then working his second job of fucking teenage watchdog right after. But honestly...it’s kind of eye opening. Pickles doesn’t even know these people and yet he commands the presence of everyone in the room. He hops on a guitar with some guy playing Slayer and he puts on a show - bouncing around, grinning, headbanging, palling around like he’s known everyone his entire life. And everyone eats it up - cheering, swooning, laughing along with him like he’s the most interesting person in the world. Murderface sits on the couch, nursing a beer and just watching it all go down, and he can’t help but think: _“This fucking kid was born to be a rockstar.”_

Pickles snorts coke off of some girl’s tits. He crushes up some downers underneath a TV remote and snorts those too, before pounding back two bottles of Jim Bean disturbingly quickly. He makes out with some guy in a closet, he interrupts a game of beer pong by jumping onto the table and putting on a strip tease, he tries to sit in Murderface’s lap at least six times before the brunette has to go out and get some air to avoid a gay crisis. God. He really _is_ feral, isn’t he? Murderface wonders if he grew up in some stuffy, rich person house and now he’s just trying to stick it to the man or whatever. Or maybe...this is just who Pickles is - a fucking batshit crazy teenage party animal. 

“Ooooooohhhhhhh,” Pickles groans from where he lays face-down on the floor, when Murderface walks back in from the front porch. “Williaaaaammmmm. ‘M naht feelin’ s’goood….” 

“Fucking pissch,” Murderface huffs, because he _knew_ the night was going to wind up like this, and his face burns as he hefts Pickles up and drags his limp body into the nearest bathroom. God, people are looking at them - what if they think, y’know. That they’re _gay_ or something. Ugh, fucking Pickles, always getting him into gay scenarios. He drops him unceremoniously, just as the redhead lurches up to the toilet bowl and absolutely destroys it with a flood of puke. 

Murderface awkwardly puts his hands on Pickles’ forehead to keep his hair pushed back, as the redhead retches into the toilet, giggling hysterically even as he violently vomits up what looks to be about a pound of stolen Burzums’ food. And then he starts talking, puke dripping down his babyface as he giggles, “Ooooh dood, this party is awwwehsome! Didja see thet guy, thet guy I was makin’ out wit? He works---he works down at the fuckin’ Radison hotel, dood! Said he’d hook me up wit’ a room, if I, heh, haaaahh, y’know...let ‘im stay there too….” 

Murderface’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Oh. Pickles would be willing to get _gay_ for a fucking hotel room? Why would he need to do that? Maybe it was a mistake, not asking where he lives. But suddenly, Murderface is almost scared to ask. He doesn’t think he wants to know, and something black and ugly rolls in his gut as he gets a glimpse of bruises on Pickles’ thin wrist underneath his big leather jacket. And he just keeps talking into the toilet bowl, a hand going into his pocket, “Ah, dood, I fuhhhkin’, look! It’s th’ good kush! Y’gaht a light?” 

He pulls a joint out of the pocket of his leather jacket with a shaky hand, giggling as he sticks it in his mouth, and Murderface looks at him incredulously. 

“You are NOT going to schmoke that right now, dickhead! You’re fucked enough as it isch,” Murderface says, swatting it out of his hands. “I’m taking you home, and by the way, _fuck you_ for making ME the responschible one here.” 

“Have fun ‘takin’ me home,’ dood,” Pickles says through his retching and his giggles. “Don’t gaht one.” 

Murderface is getting nervous. He bounces his left leg, biting his bottom lip as he snaps anxiously, “Ugh, don’t get _technical_ with me. I’ll take you to whoever’s fucking couch you crasch on, then.” 

“Don’t—“ Pickles cuts himself off as he wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve, pulling back to look at him with unfocused eyes. Murderface’s hands are still on his forehead, and he feels his ugly, wretched heart drop as Pickles slurs, “Don’t crash ‘n a couch.” 

Fuck, he shouldn’t care. Caring is gay, and not metal, and yet he finally forces himself to ask, “Scho...where do you schtay?” 

Pickles grins crookedly, emptily, head lolling, “Y’know thet dumpster outside’a….outside’a work? Haaahh, I’ve been....it’s where I belang anyways, dood. Y’know? It ain’t so bad, it’s full’a food, ‘n---”

“But--! You _have_ a job!” Murderface exclaims, feeling a spike of anger rise within him because he already knows the fucking answer to his next quesiton, “Where does all your money go?!” 

Pickles wiggles his eyebrows, “Whet’s the point’a livin’ in LA if y’don’t got any druuuugs?” 

Murderface levels him with a look, gritting out through his teeth, “So you’d rather live in a dumpster with drugs, than live sober in a hotel.” 

Pickles nods dutifully, beaming, “Theeeeats right! ‘S where I belang!” 

“You fucking moron,” Murderface pinches his temples, and fuck his entire life, because he grabs Pickles sternly by the collar and snaps, “Alright. You win. _Fuck you_ , Picklesch. Let’sch go.” 

“Haaaah? Go where?” Pickles’ coked-out green eyes slide shut, head lolling to the side, as Murderface loops an arm around his shoulders and starts walking them both out of the party. 

He knows it’s a mistake. It’s going to be his downfall. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. Someday, he’ll look at his life, and know this was the minute that he shot himself in the foot. But he hefts them both into a taxi anyways, and huffs, “You’re schtaying with me.” 

-

“Hey, dood,” Pickles nudges his socked foot against Murderface’s, from where the two of them sit on the crusty carpeting of their apartment together. It took a lot of...eugh, hard work, and forcing Pickles to stop spending all his money on drugs, but they’d managed to work their way up from shitty hotel to shitty apartment. It’s on the bad side of town - like the _really_ creepy bad side of town - and they have an ominous roach infestation, but. It’s not a fucking dumpster, so Pickles automatically acts like they’re living in heaven. 

And living together, it’s not...bad. They play their guitars together until the neighbors bang on the wall and scream for them to stop (and then they just wait twenty minutes and then play louder). They stay up all night watching shitty scary movies, they have midnight feasts of the Burzum’s that they collectively steal - how have they not been caught yet? - and it feels...like something Murderface is really, really afraid to let himself get used to. This is too good to be true. He’s like, weirdly content with this menial life with Pickles. And if all goes according to plan and they get their band going, well, then they’ll be doing this exact same thing but as rockstars in a fucking mansion somewhere. 

“What, Picklesch? I’m trying to focusch,” Murderface mutters, glaring bitterly at the notebook in his lap, tapping a pencil against his bottom lip. “For our band, I’m thinking something brutal, yet classchy, like...Gonorrhea Galaxy. Shitstain Central? I’m really schtarting to become fond of Planet Pissch, though. I—“

“Wanna make out?” 

_What_. Murderface’s words die on his throat, and he slowly looks over at Pickles with wide eyes. He sticks a finger in his ear, twisting it around a bit before checking for wax or eardrum-eating parasites, or some type of explanation that makes sense. “I think I, uh. Mischheard that.”

Living with Pickles has a downside, and that’s...constantly being in such close proximity to him. Pickles is cuddly. Touchy, always _touching_ him and sending him into full-blown gay crises with just the drag of a finger down his back or the pat of a hand on his leg. Pickles is like, shamless in every way - like when he gets out of the shower and walks through their room naked, and Murderface has to scream and put his hands over his eyes before he accidentally sees his dick and the crises _really_ start. He’s not gay, and Pickles isn’t gay for _Murderface,_ and both of them know that. 

“Nope, y’heard me right, buddy,” Pickles grins at him, in that crooked way that definitely doesn’t send warmth shooting from the pits of Murderface’s stomach up to his face, and he leans closer. “Fuckin’ kiss me.” 

Murderface blinks, face flushing, green eyes darting around in confusion, “Uhh. WHAT. Picklesch, thatsch—! Thatsch GAY!” 

“Yeeah. So?” Pickles quirks an eyebrow, teeth dragging over his infuriatingly perfect lower lip, and Murderface suddenly has no argument. He just blinks, eyes stuck to the view in front of him. Pickles and his stupid baby face, his peach fuzz chin stubble, bottom lip in his mouth, red hair wild and in his green eyes. The smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks that make him look like he’s been butterfly-kissed by an angel, collar of that stupid leather jacket he’s always wearing popped up, and _fuck,_ who has allowed this person to be so fucking attractive? It’s pissed him off since the day they first met, and it really pisses him off now. 

“Fuck you, Picklesch,” Murderface mutters, watching the redhead’s eyes flicker over his face, smirking, and it’s too much. The bassist’s calloused hands grab Pickles’ face, and he’s kissing him roughly. Pickles instantly hums in appreciation, grabbing Murderface by the vest and pulling him closer. He tries to remember to say ‘no homo,’ or leave his socks on or whatever - he’d read somewhere that it’s not gay if you leave your socks on. So, hopefully that counts for something as he gets lost in the push and pull of Pickles’ full lips.

It shouldn’t be a big deal - probably in the grand scheme of things, the makeout only lasts less than five minutes. They stop making out and Murderface is staring at the ceiling from where he lays on the floor, crisis finally settling in as Pickles laughs, makes some stupid joke - “and who said bassists aren’t good at anything?” - and then calls him "buddy" and starts blathering on about his Les Paul like they weren’t locking lips a minute ago.

Pickles thinks he can just do whatever he wants without consequences, can just jump his friend because he randomly felt like it, and he doesn’t expect that to change anything. He knows it didn't mean anything to Pickles - the fucker was just his usual chaotic combination of bored and high. He kisses everyone who gets close enough for contact - it's just who he is. But Murderface’s fingers shakily raise up to his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing as Pickles yammers on, and his heart pounds against his chest violently. 

Somehow, he has a feeling that this is going to be a problem for him. 

-

“Dood! This is fuckin’ awesome!” Pickles laughs loudly, holding out his arms like he’s on the Titanic, closing his green eyes, frame shaking with ecstatic giggles. 

"Picklesch! FUCK YOU! HOLD ON TO THE FUCKIN--!” Murderface yells, hugging him tight around the middle, as Pickles’ new motorcycle flies down the rainy nighttime streets of Los Angeles. Pickles’ stupid red hair is all he can see, whipping him in the face as they take a sharp right turn somewhere, and he’s still laughing like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. They finally get some fucking money, and instead of putting it towards rent, Pickles blows it on this...death trap. A fucking _motorcycle_? Everything Pickles does, is to impress someone else. Nobody in specific - just anyone who would care enough to look. 

A part of Murderface wishes it’s him that Pickles is trying to win over - even though he knows that isn't the case.It’s been two months since their Moment and while there haven’t been any repeats, he’s been praying that Pickles will try to initiate it again. Which isn't likely, because they both know Pickles can do a thousand times better, but. Whether he’d like to admit it or not, he’s a sheltered grandma’s boy from Texas and nothing good has ever happened to him in his life. And then he met Pickles and suddenly he’s trying drugs and gay makeouts and riding on motorcycles, and _oh yeah he’s on a motorcycle--_

They hit a bump, and Murderface screams bloody murder. “I’m LITERALLY PISSCHING MYSELF.” 

“Not on my seat, dood!” Pickles exclaims, whipping his head back to look at him, and Murderface quickly grabs him by the sides of his face and to turn him back forwards. But for some reason, he pauses. The bike keeps flying down the road, and Pickles’ green eyes are staring into his own, his wild smile dropping into a crooked smirk, and Murderface’s mouth suddenly goes dry. But then, he realizes that _oh yeah, they’re on a motorcycle_ and about to fucking DIE, so he violently turns Pickles’ face back to the road. 

“WATCH THE ROAD, YOU DICK!” Murderface yells, but there’s already a car barreling at them and they both scream as Pickles swerves in a complete 180, avoiding a deadly collision as they come to a screeching halt, but launching them both off the bike. The car pulls over abruptly, and Murderface groans as he lays sprawled out in the middle of the street. Luckily, it’s 3am, and they were flying down a back road so nobody else is really around to report anything, but _fuck!_

“I think you broke my fucking ribsch! Fucking asschole! I told you thisch thing was dangerousch!” Murderface wails, even though he’d opted to wear a helmet and was admittedly playing up his injuries for Pickles’ attention. He already has his next lines plotted out in his head, _“You’d better kissch it better, Picklesch, or else I’ll fucking SUE YOU!”_ Ah, flirting and young love. Er, not _love_ , because he doesn’t love Pickles, but--

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, dood! We gahtta get outta here!” Pickles groans, making these little “nyeehhhh” noises as he tries to get up off the street, just making grabby hands at the air. “Fuck, hurt m’back…” 

A car door opens and shuts. Pickles’ green eyes go wild, lawsuits and police and the baggie of coke that he’d shaken at Murderface earlier before stuffing it into his pocket probably flashing before his eyes. Murderface turns his head, and a dark-haired guy with a fuckton of eyeliner on slams out of the car and storms over, practically naked besides a pair of shorty-shorts and an open vest and a stupid fucking top hat, and he looms over Pickles with his hands balled into fists. 

“The fuck were you thinking, dickhead? You could’ve---” he stops, and their eyes meet. Murderface watches the breath literally whoof straight out of his friend, eyes sparkling, and the guy in the top hat’s jaw drops as he gasps, “Pickles?” 

A grin that Murderface has never seen on his friend before blossoms across his face, voice raising several octaves as he squeaks excitedly, “Tony?!” 

And then, everything’s fucked.


	2. tony

“Right now? You’re scherioushly going to do that right now, Picklesch? Jeschush!”

Murderface watches as Pickles’ body vibrates with a nervous excitement, his credit card tapping violently against the porcelain of a 24-hour diner's toilet bowl. The bassist pinches his temples, the sounds of a cute button nose snorting away filling his ears, followed by a squeaky, “wooooaaahhhhh.”

Pickles falls backwards, wiping at his nose before he springs to his feet and starts pacing around the bathroom. He scrubs his hands over his face, tugs at his hair, wheezes as he leans against the wall. “Holy FUCK, dood!”

Murderface usually prides himself on how patient he is with Pickles and his bullshit of the day. But tonight, he’s been flung off a motorcycle and is now trapped inside the only shitty restaurant that’s open at almost 4 am, when he really just wants to be fucking asleep. He raises an impatient eyebrow at his friend, “Picklesch, what the fuck isch going on? Who isch that dickhead?”

_“Hey, man, you wanna get a bite?”_ Tony had asked Pickles, helping him up off the street after having almost obliterated them with his car. The redhead looked like he was going to spontaneously combust as he nodded his head wildly. Pickles usually does whatever the fuck he wants, even at the expense of others - something Murderface appreciates, as he tries to master the art of being a dick. But then this weird ass guy nearly hits them with his car and Pickles is acting like a starry-eyed wreck with no willpower of his own, and it’s starting to leave a weird taste in Murderface’s mouth. 

“Fuckin—! It’s fuckin’ Tony, dood! I was hitch-hikin’ and he drove me to the bus station when I first came out to LA, he—we had this amazing night...” Pickles sighs, leaning against the wall as his sneakers bend in on each other. “Gahd, dood. He’s so haht! Like, even hahtter than I remembered!”

Murderface blanches, unable to stop the vile, twisting feeling that stabs through his heart. Wow. So turns out, Pickles is the one having a gay crisis this time, and Murderface fucking hates it. Like, he hates it a lot. Pickles might make out with everyone he’s ever met, hook up with people because he’s simply bored and wants validation - but he’s never actually had a crush. He deadpans, "You think _that guy_ isch hot.”

“Well yeeeah! I ain’t blind!” Pickles exclaims, bouncing around excitedly. Murderface isn’t fucking blind either, and yet he doesn’t see the appeal of a reckless driver in a top hat. He watches, baffled, as Pickles throws a hand over his face, “Gahd, those fuckin’ shorts. He wasn’t dressed like thet before! I wonder if his band took ahff!”

His band? Oh god, this guy is in a band. Of fucking course. He’s got Pickles’ affection and a band of his own, the two things Murderface pines after on the daily. He crosses his arms, muttering bitterly, “His schortsch are fucking schtupid.”

“Gahd, how am I gonna go out ‘dere?” Pickles squeaks into his hands, as they both pull open the bathroom door just a bit and peek out there. Murderface takes this opportunity to size Tony up, in case Pickles keeps looking at him like that and the bassist ends up having to fucking suplex him or something. And honestly, he doesn’t look like anything more than just some regular jackoff - smushy little nose, dark hair that’s almost tinted purple, matching dark eyes caked in eyeliner. When Murderface sneaks a glance over at Pickles, he can see the redhead gawking at the shameless lack of clothes - more specifically, the chest and abs on full display. Christ.

They can see from there that Tony is smoking in the booth. Puffing on a cigarette in this weird little cafe like he’s the most important guy in the world - and Murderface has a flash of the first time Pickles strode into Burzum’s, radiating the same entitled energy. Something about the similarity pisses him off even further; the idea of them being douchey soulmates just kind of raises the hair on the back of his neck.

"Gahd, he's perfect," Pickles swoons at the sight, way too jazzed up as he grabs Murderface by the shoulders. “Y’gahtta like, I dunno-! Slap me, yeah! Go go go!”

Murderface blinks, but then shrugs before smacking Pickles across the face. Admittedly, he’s been wanting to do that for a long time, and Pickles just shakes it off and keeps trying to hype himself up. Finally, he inhales deeply, ruffles up his already-wild hair in the mirror, and drops his expression into something more cool and collected as he moves to stride out of the bathroom.

“Picklesch. Wait,” Murderface catches him by the wrist, alarmed by the patheticness of his own voice, and the redhead looks at him in question. The bassist swallows down his worry, trying to put on his pissed-and-inconveninced voice as he snaps, "Thisch better not change anything or affect ME in any way. I’m too accuschtomed to my comfortable lifeschtyle to have schome asschole in a top hat ruin it.”

He has a disturbing feeling that Pickles is going to Yoko shit up between them. But his friend shakes his head, putting a hand on Murderface’s shoulder as he promises, “Nothin’s changin’, dood. This ain’t a big deal past me maybe gettin’ laid, y’know?”

Murderface knows Pickles well enough to tell when he’s lying. But he hears the lie, and he chooses to believe it, because he really wants it to be the truth. He was just starting to get used to having Pickles around, after all.

-

Fuck this. Fuck him.

That is Murderface’s mantra, as he sits in the apartment that he shares with Pickles, clammy fingers cracking the controller he’s holding in frustration. He’s just trying to play some fucking video games and not listen to the sounds of Pickles destroying his dreams in the background, but then again, does he expect anything less?

Apparently, Pickles has a thing for douchebags. This Tony guy just waltzes into their lives - they were doing perfectly fine without him, by the way! - and Pickles just turns....stupid. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s like he reverts into this pathetic, blushing, sweaty, giggly sack of piss and nerves. All it takes to get Pickles to fall in love with you is to almost smash him with your fucking car - maybe Murderface should’ve tried that, instead of becoming the doting dickhead sidekick. God.

What is it about Tony that does it for him, anyways? Is it because he plays the bass? Murderface would bet anything that he can play fucking circles around him. Is it because he’s in a band? Murderface could do that, too - Pickles knows Planet Piss is a work in progress! He just couldn’t understand it. Why would he be with Tony when he could be with the better, more metal version - William fucking Murderface. Pickles acts like Tony is this wonderful gift from god, but truthfully, he's a total junkie loser. He’s quiet and lame and he just kinda listens to Pickles blather on, and looks at the redhead with this stupid gooey-romantic look that makes Murderface want to knife his own eyeballs out. 

It would be easier if he had some redeeming qualities, and if Murderface was a concerned friend - which he _isn't_ \- he would note that Tony has not exactly been a good influence on the redhead. If one could imagine it to be possible, the bassist is even worse with his substances than Pickles is. All of Snakes ‘n Barrels is on something - heroin, crack, hallucinogens. Judging by the extreme mood swings and the constant tiredness, Tony’s a hard alcoholic and a heroin fiend and well, misery loves company. Pickles didn’t just fall in love with Tony - he fell for the hard stuff, too. Fuck him, and his boring enabling ass.

And it only gets worse from there. Tony’s band is called Snakes ‘n Barrels (stupid), and he’d offered Pickles a gig in said band probably two hours after he almost fucking hit him with his car (translation: hang out with me so I can inevitably fuck you). Pickles, unable to harness the skill of self-control, instantly accepted. The rest is history - Pickles joined Tony’s band and subsequently got involved with him, ditched his leather jacket to start dressing like a glam rock douche, and now these dickheads were always at their apartment and Murderface had to spend his Saturday nights sitting in some asshole’s penthouse living room if he wanted to spend any time with his own roommate. The band hasn’t taken off completely yet - but Murderface has a sick feeling that they will. 

Admittedly, he's is having a hard time dealing with it all. He powers through, because he needs Pickles around, but it feels like it hurts more and more every day. Watching Pickles and Tony fall for each other (and it’s extra painful, because the brunette is so clearly disgustingly wrong for him), watching the redhead live their dream alone and find a new family in his bandmates - it's really fucking rough. He never realized how much he hates feeling left out, until now. 

“Alright, uh. ‘Kill You.’ Let’s take it from the top.” Tony says, always so bland and boring, the exact opposite of everything that Pickles is. But fuck, Murderface looks away from his game, because he knows ‘Kill You’ like the back of his hand from all the times Pickles croons it in practice, and...well. Nobody’s voice should be able to sound that sexy, alright?

The guitars start the first riffs off the song. Murderface turns around, glancing at where the band practices behind him, and his eyes are drawn to Pickles like magnets as the redhead hypes himself up and grabs the microphone as the lyrics start. He tosses his wild hair back over his shoulder, crooked grin on his face as he closes his eyes and moves to the rhythm. His eyeliner is runny from the summer heat, his jeans too tight in all the right places. He makes eye contact with Murderface, sticks out his tongue as the guitars take over for a second, and holy shit! When did he get that pierced?!

Murderface doesn’t know how he does it. At this point, they’ve known each other for years. When he thinks of Pickles, he thinks of the trashy yet loveable redhead in a big leather jacket, who sings in the shower and throws firecrackers at cats and makes those weirdly cute little “nyyehhs” in his sleep. But when he’s practicing with his band, it’s like a flip switches, and he’s suddenly oozing sleazy rockstar sex appeal like it’s what he was born to do - just like at that first LA party years ago, when he started drunkenly shredding out Slayer and drenched the room with an infectious electricity.

But Murderface isn’t the only one who’s watching him. Tony is strumming his bass with a bored, yet infuriatingly dickish precision - but his eyes never leave Pickles. Except for a second, when he glances over at Murderface, and catches him staring. Their usual bitter jealousy sparks between them - honestly, Murderface is just thankful that Tony even sees him as a threat at all. That means he must have a chance, right?

But then, the song ends. Pickles steps away from the microphone, eyes all lit up from the thrill that being center-stage always seems to give him, and Tony casts Murderface a glance before instantly is sidling up to the redhead.

“How’d I dooo?” Pickles grins, arms thrown around Tony’s shoulders, the bassist’s hands sliding up underneath his crop top, and the two of them are always doing this shit. Always touching, always kissing, always looking, and it makes Murderface fucking sick with jealousy. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that Pickles is head-over-heels for his bassist - just not the right one, unfortunately.

“You know I’m gonna say you slayed, babe. It’s hot. You’re like, weirdly talented,” Tony purrs, and Murderface rolls his eyes and gags.

Babe. Ugh, fuck that and fuck him. Pickles laughs, blushing, grabbing Tony by the vest in an eerily similar way that he did to Murderface when they kissed, nosing against his purple-black hair. “Ooohh, y’think I’m haht, huh?”

“Is that even a question? Jesus,” Tony murmurs, and the sound of lips locking and unlocking fills his ears. He doesn’t wanna fucking see this! Why do they have to do this in front of him? But he knows exactly why, especially when Pickles fucks off to somewhere else and Tony grins crookedly at Murderface, licking his post-makeout lips as he quirks a challenging eyebrow.

“Trying to compenschate for schumthing, dickhead?” Murderface says in the most uncaring voice he can muster, turning back to his game and mashing the buttons violently on his controller.

“Aw, man. Didn’t mean to make you jealous, buddy,” Tony replies airily, plucking his instrument as the two of them fall into their usual bitter banter, “Was it my bass playing? Maybe someday you’ll get to play like a big boy too.”

“HA! You can’t even play that with your dick, bro! Weak assch schit!”

“My dick is usually...otherwise occupied. But you know that, I’m sure,” Tony leers, his always-tired eyes smirking at him through all that makeup. Murderface reddens a bit at the comment - the walls are, uh. Thin at their apartment, but Murderface fires backs, “Uschually soundsch like you don’t know how to usche it.”

“So, if it’s not my bass playing that you’re all riled up over,” Tony drawls, pointedly ignores the previous comment. “Is it Pickles, yknow, wanting me and not you? I just kinda got him so fast, man...and how long have you been trying?”

Murderface is gonna fuckin’ eviscerate this guy. He’s not a very...fist-fighty type person, because he’s been in his fair share of fights in his day and they never really end well for him. However, he’s been getting pretty good at being a dick, and he’s learned something from Tony constantly mooching off their living situation. Tony is a moody drama queen. He doesn’t blow up or yell much, unless he’s really smacked out - but he does give Pickles the silent treatment and sulk around and act like a little bitch when he’s upset. Pickles hates it, unsure how to handle all the drama other than either ignoring it or coaxing Tony back into a better mood. Murderface is pretty sure he can get Tony into one of his moods, best case scenario start a fight between the couple or something, and he’s going to revel in it.

He cracks his neck, inhaling deeply through his nose. He rests his chin in his palm, flashing Tony a gap-toothed grin that looks much too serene as he says evenly, “You know, you’re fucking hilariousch, dude.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, head lolling to the side and bringing a curtain of purple-black hair with it, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean. When you try and talk schit about me, you’re juscht talking schit about yourschelf. You think me and you are any different? We’re living the schame storyline, buddy,” Murderface purrs, reveling in the way that little button nose scrunches up in annoyance.

“And how’s that?” Tony asks, and that weird kind of twangy accent he has just pisses Murderface off further. “I’m fucking Pickles. You’re not. That’s a big difference, my man.”

“I’m glad you asked! Letsch review. Both bassischts, both friendsch with Picklesch. We both took him in - me into my hotel, you into your gay band - scho we could get closcher to him. And guessch what?” Murderface leans over the back of the couch, watching intently as Tony crosses his arms. “Here I am. Schitting on thisch couch, watching him with schomeone elsch. Thisch? Thisch is gonna be you, dickhead, scho buckle in and get fuckin’ ready.”

Tony gnaws on his bottom lip a bit, something ugly sparking in his dark eyes, and he tosses his hair over a shoulder as he walks past Murderface. Before Murderface can grin in victory, however, Tony pauses. His voice is level, as he says coolly, “Pickles _loves_ me, and there’s the difference.”

Murderface feels the stab of pain in his heart, because fuck, alright, that hurts. However, his will to be an asshole outweighs his pain, as he calls after Tony, “For now, dickhead! Juscht wait and schee!”

Later, Pickles slumps down on the couch next to him. Murderface raises an eyebrow, “What’sch your problem?” 

“Tony’s bein’ a drahma queen again,” Pickles huffs, crossing his arms. “He locked me outta my own gahddamn room.” 

“That sucksch,” Murderface offers, an ugly little smirk on his face. “Wonder what hisch problem isch.” 

-

The door to their apartment creaks open, and Murderface watches as Pickles tries to creep in silently. He swivels the chair around that he’d been sitting - waiting - in, and violently yanks the string of their lamp before Pickles can get by. The redhead jumps, eking out a ‘nyeh!’ of surprise when he sees Murderface sitting there sternly.

“And where were you, mischter?” The bassist demands, lowering the newspaper he’d been holding up for dramatic effect. “Becausch ‘the YMCA’ doesch not schtay open until....” he checks his watch, as if he doesn’t already know the time, “3:45 am!”

“I was jest...pallin’ around, man,” Pickles says, walking to the kitchen to grab himself a bag of chips - when he passes, Murderface gets a nose full of cigarette reek and hairspray and sweat. Pickles didn’t used to smoke cigarettes, or call everybody ‘man,’ or cake himself in eyeliner, before Tony came along. The more popular Snakes 'n Barrels gets, the more Pickles' style and personality changes. He was fucking fine the way he was before - Murderface always liked that Pickles was shameless in who he was. Why is he trying to change himself for some basic nobody?

“Well thanksch for letting me know you weren’t dead or whatever,” Murderface snaps dramatically, wanting Pickles to feel guilty but also being kind of serious. If Pickles goes missing, the first person they’re gonna start pointing fingers at is his devilishly handsome and mysterious loner roommate. 

The redhead has the decency to look a little guilty, for fucking with the one person in LA who has ever given enough of a shit to watch out for him. He pushes his wild hair off his face, pausing instead of trudging off to the shitty mattress pad laying on the floor that he calls his bed. “I’m sahrry, dood, okey? I know I’ve been kinda...MIA lately.” 

‘MIA’ is a fucking understatement. Snakes 'n Barrels has gotten more serious, with their first album starting to take off, and Pickles has barely been home. Murderface had grown accustomed to the kid’s presence - despite his endless levels of annoyingness - and was starting to hate his existence without him. He couldn't just sit in on their band practice every day and pretend like that counted as getting to hangout with his roommate, and it’s all really pissing him off. 

Pickles continues, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, and Murderface doesn’t even have the energy to yell at him for smoking in the apartment. “But hey, dood. I've gaht some good fuckin' news, and it'll make up for me bein' gone so much. You ready?" 

Murderface raises an eyebrow, somehow not believing that this is really going to benefit him, “What isch it?”

“I'm gonna be leavin' fer a bit," Pickles says, a shock of alarm stabbing through Murderface. He offers Murderface a crooked grin, excitement thinly veiled, as he says, "We're tourin' after we put this first album out, and we're goin' all around the country! I'll cover rent while I'm gone, and here's the good part - I'm gonna tahk to the guys 'n see if they'd be down with me bringin---"

“You’re  _ leaving _ ?” Murderface repeats, and a terrible, new type of jealousy brews up inside of him, causing Pickles to stare at him in surprise. “You’re ditching  _ our dreams  _ for gay assch Schnakes ‘n Barrels. God, how did I know thisch was coming? ”

“Will,” Pickles crosses his arms, rolling his eyes. “I’m naht in the mood fer your diva shit, man. If you’d just listen t’me for once you’d--”

“Well you’re alwaysch in the mood for Tony’s diva schit, ‘ _man_!’” Murderface snarls, and he feels something snap as he hisses, “You think you’re scho much better than everyone elsche juscht becausch you’re getting record schales? Not everyone hasch the opportunity to fuck people to get spotsch in schitty bands!” 

Pickles jolts in shock, gaping at him, "Whet did you jest say?" 

Murderface knows he's hurting him, that he's about to shove something between the two of them that might never be able to be removed, but he keeps going, "You know the only fucking reaschon that you're even here isch becausch you're where Tony gets schome easchey assch." 

Pickles’ face blazes, cracked open with offense, as he jabs a finger at the bassist, “You know I’ve fuckin’ worked goddamn hard for a chance at—“

“Oh, I know you do. The wallsch are thin enough for me to hear."

“Dood--? Are you bein’ serious right now? _Fuck you!_ ” Pickles hisses, face flushed and angry. “What's your fuckin prahblem, asshole?" 

“I don’t have a problem, YOU have a problem!” Murderface yells, throwing himself out of the chair and getting ready to storm off. His voice is thick with emotion, and he hates himself for it, "You schaid nothing was going to change! You let that fucker come in here and ruin everything!" 

He tries to walk past Pickles, but the redhead catches him by the arm, “Y’should be happy fer me instead of bein’ a selfish prick! Like fuckin’ always!” 

“LIKE ALWAYSCH!?” Murderface shoves him back, and Pickles gets right back up in his face. “Are you fucking KIDDING ME? All that heroin isch getting to your fucking head! Which is THINNING, by the way!” 

“FUCK YOU!” 

He opens his mouth to say more - _it was just supposed to be us, we were supposed to do this together, I knew you were going to leave me behind, and by the way, it fucking kills me to see you with him because I'm goddamn in love with you_ \- but before any of those words can push their way out of his mouth, the apartment door opens and closes and Tony strolls up behind Pickles.

“What’s up, man,” Tony hits him with that famous tired smile, slinging an arm around Pickles’ shoulder, dark hair curtaining his face as his head lolls. Murderface feels his left eye twitch, fists clenched, and Pickles is still staring at him furiously, looking sick with anger. 

"You know what? Fuck you guysch," Murderface flicks up his middle fingers, one for Pickles and one for Tony, and then he storms out. Pickles doesn't try to stop him. 

-

Pickles put in his resignation at Burzum’s on a particularly rainy day. Murderface stood at the cash register, staring at his two-week’s notice like it was the most vile thing he’s ever seen in his life. He thinks about ripping it up, setting it on fire, doing something besides just letting Pickles walk away. They were supposed to be doing this whole LA thing together, and now? Now Pickles is shining, and he’s doing it without Murderface.

Things just start to slip away from him. Snakes ‘n Barrels goes fucking crazy. Their first album goes platinum and suddenly Pickles is everywhere - all over billboards and MTV and magazines and it’s just fucking ridiculous. Murderface can’t help the vile, oozing jealousy that rolls through him when he sees the way everyone is thirsting after America’s favorite new celebrity. He’d thirsted first, he had dibs before it was cool to think Pickles is hot - and yet Tony and the groupies have an all-access pass to everything Murderface wants.

Pickles is too stubborn to apologize to him after their fight, and Murderface sure as hell isn’t apologizing for something that he didn’t do and isn’t sorry for. Somehow, it's easier to have nothing to do with Pickles then to keep following him around like a pathetic asshole. Pickles covers their rent in full every month, basically like Murderface’s rockstar sugar daddy, and it almost makes him feel worse about himself. The bassist keeps working at Burzum’s, he keeps trying to get his shit together - he scores himself a gig when this band held emergency auditions for a show downtown, after their bassist's hand got cut off in a freak stage accident. Financially Raped, they're called, and Murderface starts palling around a little bit with their lead guitarist. 

Snakes 'n Barrels had been touring for eight months, when the breakup rumors between Pickles and Tony start to swirl around in the media. The two of them never explicitly admitted they were together, but there's rolls and rolls of footage of the singer and the guitarist swooning over each other. Murderface has seen it all - the infamous picture of Pickles in Tony's lap, the guitarist's hands splayed across his ass as they grin at the camera with matching hazy smiles. The footage from that one concert in Palo Alto, where Pickles dragged Tony to the front of the stage and gave him a drunken strip tease in front 500,000 people. It goes on and on, almost like they have something to prove rather than love to show.

But now? Now, the media is sure that Pickles and Tony are over. Murderface gets a tabloid magazine mixed in with his mail - a picture of Pickles and Tony fighting outside of a hotel the band is stationed at headlines the cover. _"SnB feeling the Blues! Will the breakup of Pickles and Tony lead to the downfall of the band that founded glam rock?"_

Murderface tosses it aside, because good, he hopes they’re miserable and he hopes they break up in every sense of the word. He sifts through the rest of whatever had been crammed into his little mail cubby, and that's when he sees a beat-up looking envelope, from...speak of the devil. Pickles. 

He hasn’t heard from his ex-roommate in at least two years now. They never speak about Pickles paying his rent - it just takes care of itself every month, and they leave it at that. What could this be? His fingers shake a bit, as he starts to tear open the top--

He nearly screams as the phone rings next to him, and he huffs in annoyance as he snatches it off the wall. “What.” 

“Hey, man. It’s Tony.” 

Murderface’s blood runs cold, that tired voice flooding through his ears and drenching his brain like poison. He’s too surprised to even say anything, because where does this asshole get off thinking he can call him after ruining his life? He’s quiet for a long time, and Tony waits patiently, before he finally says flatly, “The _fuck_ do you want. Tipsch on how your make your flat-assch bassch sound better?”

Tony huffs, muttering something under his breath, before he snaps, “It’s about Pickles. I—“ 

“No,” he instantly says vehemently, slamming a palm down on the counter in front of him. “Fuck Picklesch, I’m  _ done _ cleaning up messesch for that dickhead.” 

“You don’t understand, though. He—“ 

“I don’t fucking CARE. Undersctand that!” 

“You know I wouldn’t call you if he didn’t need your help,” Tony snaps, and Murderface groans loudly into the receiver to try and convey his disgust. He’s ignored, as the bassist continues quickly, “This fucking guy’s sunk his claws into him, and I can’t...it’s my fault he even met him, y’know? He’s gonna get himself killed if he keeps going on like this. We might not be together ‘n shit anymore but I still—“ 

“Scho you guysch really broke up,” Murderface leers, chin in his palm. “Iscn’t that sad. I thought Picklesch loved you, _and that'sch the differensche_ , asch you onsche schaid.” 

Tony audibly swallows, and doesn’t say anything. Murderface is already uninterested in this situation, even if the idea of Pickles being in trouble still tugs at something in his chest region. He picks up the envelope that said singer had sent him, drawling into the phone as he tears it open, “Well, Tony, thisch converschation hasch been fucking thrilling and all, but Picklesch is your responschibility, so…..oh.” 

A single picture flutters out onto the countertop in front of him. Murderface raises an eyebrow, flipping it forward, and he’s...well, he’s surprised. He’s used to the version of Pickles that he sees nonstop on magazines and TV and billboards - tongue out, “fuck me” eyes smoldering, hair teased up and runny makeup on his eyes. Not...well, the Pickles that he used to know.

It’s a picture of Pickles from a couple years back, nineteen and in his Burzum’s uniform, looking smug as he grins crookedly for the camera. Murderface instantly recognizes it - it was the one time Pickles had gotten employee of the month, for successfully getting a raccoon out of the deep fryer. He’d been so proud of himself, talking about how he was _‘movin’ up in the world!’_ and bragging about it to every customer who walked in. Scribbled at the bottom of the Polaroid, is unmistakable handwriting: _“in case you ever get in a pinch and need some blackmail.”_

“Well, fuck me,” Murderface huffs, pinching his temples, shoving his emotions down as far as they'll go, and he stuffs the picture into his wallet. He takes a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut, before he finally demands into the phone, “Schay it.” 

Tony’s stupid boring voice sounds uneasy, “Uhh. Say what?” 

“Schay that I was right, when I told you that schomeday you’d be in the same fucking schpot that I wasch.” His voice hardens a bit, “And schay it ischn’t easchey.” 

Tony mulls this over for a couple seconds, and weirdly enough, something loosens between the two of them as he mutters with a misery that Murderface can relate to, “Honestly, we both knew you were right back then, man. It fucking blows.” Tony sighs, “He’s too good for both of us. But he’s way too goddamn good for Magnus.” 

Murderface raises an eyebrow, “The fuck is Magnusch?”

Tony sighs, “Basically, he’s our worst nightmare."


	3. magnus

**13 years from now**

Murderface has become a master at hiding his emotions by now, but...contrary to popular belief, he’s not completely heartless, alright? He can’t help but start to care about his bandmates’ issues if they really get into some deep shit, which is against the pact they’d made when they started Dethklok, but who really followed that, anyways? 

Everyone knows that Skwisgaar is the one taking everything happening with Toki the hardest. Their rhythm guitarist lays comatose in his Mordhaus hospital room, the lead tight at his side holding a clammy palm in his own shaking hand. Everyone’s worried about Skwisgaar, especially after his overdose, and Murderface knows that they should be. The guy has been emotionally fucked ever since he lost Toki, and he’s almost unrecognizable at this point. But unfortunately, like always, there’s someone else Murderface has to be worried about, too. 

“Schtop being such a whiny dildo, Picklesch,” He can hear the worry in his own voice, arms crossed tight around his chest as he stares at their drummer’s shaking frame. He’s curled up on his bed, facing the wall, holding himself and chugging a bottle of vodka violently through choked off sobs. It’s always so pathetic to see Pickles cry - but lord help him, it never fails to twist and burn his heart. 

“Whet if he doesn’t wake up,” Pickles wheezes, tossing the empty bottle at the wall, which shatters on impact. He curls in tighter on himself, “Gahd, it’s...it’s all my fuckin’ fault, dood! Whet the hell ‘m I supposed to fuckin’ do?” 

Murderface raises an eyebrow, “How the fuck isch it your fault that Toki wouldn’t lischten to usch and schtop hanging out with Magnusch? He’sch a fucking psycho, and everyone knowsch that! Toki wasch being an idiot!” 

Pickles bursts into tears, ugly gasping cries pouring out of his throat, and Murderface just stands there in shock as he sobs, “I’m the fuckin’ idiot, dood! I braght ‘im here, I _fucked_ ‘im, I can’t believe thet I—I can’t believe thet I ever....” 

Murderface taps his foot impatiently, green eyes darting around, uncomfortable with the way Pickles’ sniveling is making him feel. He’d told Pickles, back in the day, that Magnus was a crazy piece a shit. He didn’t want to listen then, and he’s paying for it now - Murderface should be laughing in victory and spouting off ‘I told you so’s.’ But Toki’s all half-dead in his hospital room, and Pickles is falling apart right here in front of him, and he can’t bring himself to gloat just yet. 

“I mean, fuck! Have you fucking seen Toki?” Pickles whines, hands shaking as he tears open the top of a pill bottle from his pocket, shoving its contents into an open palm. “Because I’ve fucking seen ‘im, jest bleeding out of his gahddamn face! Whet the fuck did Magnus do to ‘im?!” 

Murderface is the only one in the band who knows about how things really were between Magnus and Pickles - to him, it’s glaringly obvious that their drummer is drowning in guilt over ever dating the guy who’d fucked Toki up so extensively. But once upon a time - before Magnus stabbed Toki, before he stuck a knife in Nathan’s shoulder, before Nathan was even in their lives at all, Pickles had been crazy about the guy...

And judging by the tears on Pickles’ face, it’s a time he’d like to forget completely. 

\- 

**Present day**

The last few notes of ‘Hacksaw Defiler’ ring out through the room, still shaking the shitty little garage on its hinges, and Murderface huffs in satisfaction as he lets his bass hang from the strap around his chest. They might still be playing dive bars and not packed stadiums, but it feels really fucking good to take his stress out on his axe. Before Financially Raped can congratulate each other on fuckin’ tearing it up, they all jump as someone fires off a round across the street - if he’d thought his and Pickles’ apartment was on the bad side of town, he’d been sorely mistaken in comparison to this place. 

But that’s just life, isn’t it? Practice with your shitty band in a shitty garage while your ex-roommate flies into a packed stadium on a grand piano, microphone in his left hand and champagne flute in his right. Or at least, that _was_ how things had been going for Pickles - now, according to Tony, everything is falling apart for the guy. To what extent, Murderface isn’t sure - and that’s why he’s heading over to the Snakes ‘n Barrels penthouse as soon as whatever madly expensive car Tony whips around decides to pull up outside.

“And wheres do you think youse ams goingks?” Skwisgaar, the band’s lead guitarist, raises a light eyebrow at Murderface as he starts packing up his bass. “We gots some big stuffs comings up and we sounds like a bunch of garbage cans whats ams rollings down the streets ins a hurricanes.” 

“I’ve gotta go drag my dickhead ex-roommate from the pitsch of rockstar hell,” Murderface sighs dramatically, glancing down at his watch. “Itsch kind of a regular thing, with him.” 

“Wells, donts be forgettings - we gots auditions for our singer three weeks from todays. Aftor the gig in Floridas,” Skwisgaar points at him, which Murderface finds reasonable, because he usually always forgets when they have gigs coming up. If someone isn’t there constantly reminding him, he’d definitely end up sleeping through it all. 

Skwisgaar is cool, if you’re into the whole “beautiful Swedish prodigy” thing, and Murderface can admit he’s the best guitarist that he’s probably ever heard. But even with all his skills and practice, he hasn’t found his place in LA yet, which is something the bassist can relate to. The Swede is notorious around town for his “band promiscuity” - he just kind of breezes into practice, thrashes his heart out on his guitar, and then goes to the next practice for a different group. Clearly, there’s something he’s looking for that he’s not finding - a challenge, maybe? Murderface can’t seem to care enough to look into it - but he wishes the blonde would find something that satisfies him already, because he’s sick of him pushing his rockstar aspirations on a band they both know isn’t going anywhere. 

“What’s the fucks? Yous boyfriend ams rich?” Skwisgaar’s eyebrows raise, as a sleek black Ferrari pulls up outside the garage. Murderface sputters, as the blonde chuckles behind a hand, “Yous better tell him he’s on the wrong side of towns to be drivingks something flashies like dats.” 

“Okay, firscht of all - _boyfriend_?!” Murderface literally gags in disgust, watching Tony roll down the window and slide his sunglasses down his nose. He points at the brunette in the car, to Skwisgaar’s increasing amusement, “I’d rather KILL MYSCHELF then be gay with HIM! But I wouldn’t be gay with anyone! Becausch I like CHICKS. Big tittiesch, fat assesch--” 

“Okays, okays,” Skwisgaar laughs, tossing his hair over his shoulder as he takes his spot in practice again. “Don’t be lates next time, ja? And _practice_ , dildo, you ams soundingks sloppies.” 

God, what an entitled asshole - and Murderface can respect that, because it’s all part of the art of being a dick. He flicks Skwisgaar off before slipping out of the garage, trying to ignore the shady people staring at Tony’s car as he throws himself inside. 

“You know you’re about to get carjacked, right, dumbassch?” Murderface raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he sinks back into the seat. He takes a moment to look around, get cozy in his seat - because past all his jealousy, this is definitely the nicest car he’s ever been inside, and sometimes it’s nice just rubbing your ass on something that’s worth more than all the organs in your body combined. 

Tony peels out, dark-lined eyes on the road ahead of him, and he doesn’t seem like he’s very interested in talking to Murderface. Typical dickhead as always, and it’s been way too long since the two of them have gotten at each other’s throats, so. Murderface is aiming to change that. 

“Schooo,” Murderface drawls smugly, looking out the window and watching the palm trees swing by. “What happened? You gonna tell me why America’s shittiest power couple schplit up?” 

“Fuck off, man,” Tony huffs, black-painted nails digging into the steering wheel, looking stressed and tired and itching to not be so sober. Two years, and he still is wearing that goddamn top hat. What a fucking dildo. 

“Wow, he muscht’ve got you good. Wasch there a reaschon, or did he juscht get sick of your bullschit?” Murderface laughs, and god, after all of those years of the bassist flaunting his relationship with Pickles at him, this mocking feels amazing. “Maybe it wasch your bassch playing. He got scho bored with it he had to—“ 

“I broke up with Pickles,” Tony says flatly, and Murderface’s eyes bug out of his skull as he whips his head over to look at him. 

“Wh...?” Murderface blinks, brain launching itself into a hard reboot. “Exchusche me, I KNOW I didn’t hear that right. You WHAT?” 

Tony sighs, biting down on his bottom lip, looking pained as he keeps his eyes on the road. He mutters, “It was for his own good.” 

Murderface can’t believe what he’s hearing. Tony, the boring regular jackoff, broke up with Pickles. His rockstar boyfriend, who literally everyone else in the world is lusting after, who was the only reason the media even gave him the time of day, who he had been fucking crazy about! Murderface blurts, aghast, “Why?!” 

“I thought you’d be thrilled,” Tony drawls, chuckling bitterly, ignoring the question. “Does it matter? We’re over. You were right. Feel free to be a dick about it, man. It can’t hurt more than it already does.” 

“Niche to schee you’re schtill a dramatic bitch,” Murderface mutters, scrunching up his nose in disgust at the way that Tony miserably gazes at the road in front of him. Clearly, the bass player isn’t taking this breakup well, and Murderface refuses to ask how Pickles is handling it, especially because he already knows the answer. He’s been friends with the redhead long enough to be aware that he does not deal well with rejection. “Are you gonna tell me what I’m even schupposed to be doing? Or why exachtly I’m here?” 

“You’re the only person who’s ever been able to get Pickles under some type of control. Magnus is...the opposite. He brings out the, uh. Chaos in him, I guess,” Tony sighs, leg bouncing anxiously. “The band is falling apart, man. We ain’t gonna make it past this tour, and we all know it. So between that and the drugs and Magnus and our breakup, he’s been...uh..” 

Tony trails off, and Murderface sighs, leveling him with a look, “Schelf-destructive epischode?” 

“Self-destructive episode,” Tony nods in response, and Murderface groans into his hands. He’s very, very fucking sick of having to be the knight in shining armor for someone who isn’t even going to reward him with what he really wants. He doesn’t just _do things_ for people. The bassist next to him continues, “He needs to get away from Magnus. He needs to go to fucking rehab and get clean before he OD’s and it’s too late. You gotta do whatever it takes to make that shit happen.” 

“You know, thisch is _your fault_. You were the one who got him hooked on thisch schit,” Murderface glares, and Tony has the decency to look guilty as his dark eyes stare sadly at the road ahead of him. “You treat me like a bag of dicksch for years, and now I’m fixing YOUR schtupid messch.” 

“You’re not doing it for _me_. You’re not even doing it for Pickles. It’s always about you, and that’s another thing we have in common. We put ourselves over him,” Tony huffs, and Murderface glares harshly at him, opens his mouth to refute this. But...it’s kind of true, isn’t it? Tony keeps his eyes trained on the road, trying to ignore Murderface the best he can, and eventually, they reach the penthouse. 

“Alright, listen,” Tony says, smacking Murderface’s hand away before he can pull open the front door. “Snakes is kind of in a state of...chaos right now. And this Magnus guy is a fucking dick, on like, a whole new level. Just...be ready.” 

Murderface levels Tony with a look, “HE’SCH a dick? Nobody’s a bigger dick than ME, asschhole.”

Tony huffs, and pushes open the front door. Murderface is instantly hit with a rank cloud of cigarette smoke and weed and hairspray, nose scrunching up in disgust. He squints through the haze, able to make out a few key details - rigs and needles and bongs littering the floor, Snazz passed out on the ground in a pile of groupies, Sammy with his head down at the kitchen table. Murderface gapes at the mess - he and Pickles never kept their apartment particularly clean, but it was never like this...

“It schmells like schomeone fucking died in here,” Murderface says to Tony, voice a very loud whisper. He notices the bassist is eyeing the various drugs on the table hungrily, his pace slowing down as they walk through the house, and Murderface yanks him by the arm with an eye roll, “Come on, dude, keep it together for one fucking minute.” 

They make their way through the penthouse, and both Tony and Murderface are starting to get a little worried about where Pickles could possibly be. While the redhead isn’t present, someone else whistles as they walk by, snapping their attention over to the couch. 

_You’ve got to be pissching me_ , Murderface thinks as he gets an eyeful of the guy who’s clearly this Magnus character. How could he tell, you ask? Well, he’s a taller, spindlier, less alcoholic-y version of Tony - the open shirt, the dark hair and dark eyes, the facial hair. Murderface stares at him, watching the way he pushes his thick curls out of his face, raising a passive-aggressive eyebrow at them, and he really does perfectly fit the bill of someone Pickles would like, huh? 

“Looking for Pickles?” He swings an arm over the back of the couch, looking incredibly comfortable in a house that isn’t his own. He looks at Tony flatly, “Thought he told you he didn’t want to see you outside of work stuff, man.” 

Oh god, he _talks_ like Tony too, and Murderface looks between the two of them like he’s seeing double. 

“I’m not here to see him, trust me,” Tony mutters. “I’ve got his old roommate here.” 

Murderface crosses his arms with a glare, trying to look intimidating as Magnus’ dark eyes flicker over to him. The dark-haired man looks intrigued, assessing him intensely before he smirks, “So. You’re the roommate, huh?” 

“More like glorified babyschitter, but. Yeah. Who the fuck are you schupposched to be?” 

“He’s talked about you before,” Magnus drawls, ignoring the question. “When he gets drunk, sometimes. Said you were the only person who ever kept an eye on him. Bet that makes you wonder what he managed to get up to without you, yeah?” 

“I think I’ve got a pretty good guessch,” Murderface mumbles, glaring at the dark-haired man, and that same competitive spark lights up between them, just like when we first met Tony. But this time, it’s...darker. Threatening, dangerous, and Murderface looks at this guy and wonders what exactly Pickles _has_ gotten himself into. 

“Whhuhhhh? Who’s theeeat?” Pickles calls from another room, and Murderface straightens up real quick. “Sounds like fuhhkinn’ Wi—“ 

And then they’re staring at each other, face-to-face for the first time in over two years. Murderface isn’t sure what reunion he’s expecting to have with Pickles, after not seeing the guy for all this time. And clearly, two years can change a person a lot - the last time they’d palled around with each other, Pickles had just been Murderface’s regular jackoff drug-addict roommate. But now he’s wildly famous and in the midst of some sort of quarter-life crisis, so, the bassist is expecting the worst. 

The first, and most obvious thing that Murderface notices - Pickles is just radiating misery. His eyes are sunken with dark circles, (thinner) hair a wild, grungy mess, shoulders slumped and crooked grin completely gone. Instead of the wild colors that he’s always shown wearing, he’s wearing a black crop top and some loose acid wash jeans, eyeliner smudged and running down his face. What the fuck? Who is this person? Murderface barely even recognizes him - if Pickles wasn't clearly super high, he would've doubted this is actually his old roommate at all.

Pickles gapes at him, slowly walking over like Murderface is a ghost, and the bassist doesn’t miss the way Magnus’ eyes follow him the whole way down the hall. Murderface’s fight-or-flight instincts kick in as Pickles stands in front of him, but he squares his shoulders and stands his ground. Are they going to fight? Scream? Pick up right from where they left off in their apartment—? 

“Dood!” Pickles exclaims, tired eyes lighting up, arms thrown around him in the first hug he’s received since the last time the redhead gave him one, and Murderface just stands there in pure shock. “Oh my gahd, I never thaht I’d say this, but - fuck, did I miss you!” 

This...is not what he was expecting. At all. But he still can’t help the smile that fights it’s way to his face, even as he pats the redhead’s back quickly and huffs, “Picklesch! You’re being gay!” 

The singer smushes his scruffy cheek against Murderface’s, and it hits him that the little babyface he’d always pictured in his mind’s eye is way more grown up than the last time he’d seen him. The two of them, they’d lost a lot of time together, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stick around and mooch off of Pickles’ fame for a little while. He peeks over the redhead's shoulder, to see Tony and Magnus hitting him with matching glares, and well. Murderface has never really been one to leave when there's drama, anyways.

-

“What band ams this agains? I’s never heards of dis ‘Snakes and de Baskets,’ and I’s in like, every band that evor exists. Amnst sounds brutals,” Skwisgaar huffs, making a noise of frustration as he tries to smooth down his frizzing hair. “Why de fucks am Floridas so humids?!” 

“Why the fuck won’t you stop complaining?!” Murderface snaps, to which the blonde merely flicks up a middle finger at him and then _keeps complaining_. He’s an even bigger diva than fucking Tony, which Murderface didn’t even think was possible. It’s not like he wants to be here either - sweating his ass off in Florida, preparing to squeeze himself into a pit of horny chicks at a Snakes ‘n Barrels concert. Which, usually, he’d like the horny chicks part - but he can’t find himself to be too thrilled, when all the girls are thirsting over Pickles and his obscenely tight pants. 

It all worked out too conveniently - when Pickles found out Murderface would be in Florida dealing with the Financially Raped lead singer auditions, he’d been ecstatic to tell the bassist that he had a show the same weekend. Before Murderface could protest, Pickles was throwing tickets at him, booking his band ritzy hotel rooms, and well. If Murderface is going to mooch off his friend’s fame, there’s no time like the present to start.

Snakes 'n Barrels and Financially Raped decided to take the trip down to Florida together, stopping along the way for some of Pickles' band's shows, and honestly, it's been kind of amazing - palling around together on tour, getting celebrity-grade drugs and A-list chicks (okay, well, Murderface didn't score any A-list chicks, and he definitely doesn't spend every after party watching Pickles shimmy around, but...whatever). Pickles even let them open for him singerless during a show or two, and Skwisgaar looked like all his dreams were coming true, as he flipped his hair around and shredded his heart out in front of 500,000 glam rock girls. For once in his boring life, Murderface has been having _fun_.

But Pickles? On the outside, he looks like he's his usual, rascally goofball self. But after the show's over and the party's ended, he falls apart at the seams every time - high and hysterical and raging, fighting with Tony until they're both yelling and breaking things in smacked-out rages, shoving Magnus against the wall and whipping his belt out of the loops with shaking hands, curling up in Murderface's lap and sobbing until he passes out. Sammy and Snazz are terrified of him, Skwisgaar just kind of hangs out and fucks Pickles' groupies and enjoys the drama, and Financially Raped's drummer just kind of hides out in the hotel and try to stay out of it all.

Since Skwisgaar runs the show in their band, they ended up a 4-piece - singer, drummer, bassist, guitarist. He was very adamant about them being a one-guitar band, as he insists he’s never been able to play with a rhythm guitarist who can keep up with him. Their drummer leaves a bad taste in the blonde’s mouth as well, not able to thrash as hard as Skwisgaar wants him to - he’d told Murderface on several occasions that they’ll have to replace the guy after they get a new lead singer. 

Murderface opens the door to Pickles' dressing room, and instantly wishes he hadn't - Skwisgaar chuckles in surprise behind a hand, and Murderface throws his hands over his eyes, at the sight of Pickles sitting on Magnus’ lap in his dressing room chair, his makeup staff trying to tease up his hair as the two of them sloppily, passionately make out. They pause every couple seconds to puff on the joint in Pickles' left hand, to take dual swigs from the bottle of scotch in Magnus' right, and Murderface _hates_ feeling that familiar stab of heartbreak that he always seems to experience when seeing Pickles with someone else.

Before, dealing with Pickles’ crazy antics was annoying, albeit manageable. But now? Now there’s two of him, two people going wild and wreaking chaos and there’s really nothing he can do but sit there and watch the show. “Partners in crime” is really the only way to describe Pickles and Magnus. But then again, the word “partners” implies that they’re on the same side, and this clearly isn’t the case. It’s obvious the dark-haired man loves to see him break. And that’s why he makes it happen every single time - just pushes him and pushes him until he’s a shaky little mess, and Pickles never has the brains to put a stop to it. 

It’s always some type of weird game with Magnus - like he’s amused with how much he can get away with when he gets Pickles pliable enough to be manipulated. How far will he go in a fight, if he’s high enough and pissed off enough? How much could he bring up Tony, or Pickles’ dick brother, before Pickles starts doing his twitchy-anxious thing? It’s like frog dissection - cracking him open, yanking out all the worst, squirming parts of him. Pickles is helpless, because Magnus has a way of getting into people’s heads, and he’s clearly sunk his claws in deep. 

'You looks so jealous, Williams," Skwisgaar whispers amusedly behind the hand over his mouth, ever the slut for drama. Murderface swats at him, hissing loudly, "Schut the fuck up!"

At the sound of his voice, both men turn back to look at the door. "Hey, guys," Magnus says, curls falling in his face as he pats Pickles' thighs, gesturing for the redhead to get off of him. "Time to watch the show, huh?'

"Aw, but dooood," Pickles pulls Magnus up with him, body shaking and head lolling, and how is he supposed to perform this messed up? His feet turn in on themselves as he falls against the taller man. "Can't we, y'know--" he makes some sort of hand gesture that Murderface has a feeling implies something extremely gay, "--before I go out dere?"

"At the afterparty, we'll talk," Magnus purrs, patting the top of the redhead's wild mane of hair, flattening all the teasing that the makeup girls had just done. Before Pickles can start complaining about his hair getting messed up, Magnus is striding away, blowing a kiss over his shoulder as he slides right past Skwisgaar and Murderface. The blonde rolls his eyes, and the two of them follow behind. Murderface takes a glance back at Pickles, who struggles to stay standing up as he leans against the wall, and he can't help the sickening stab of concern that twists around in his gut.

"Oh man. This is gonna be good," Magnus chuckles, sticking a cigarette between his lips in an ominously similar way to Tony. "You'd be surprised how well he does onstage, even when he's high like that."

"You's a big fan of dis glam rock shits?" Skwisgaar raises an eyebrow, taking a cigarette that the dark-haired man extends to him.

“I never miss a show,” Magnus gloats darkly as they walk down the hall, and Murderface definitely believes him. Instead of not fucking his bandmates, Pickles needs a new motto - don’t fuck your fans. They always end up going crazy, at some point or another, and Murderface is pretty sure Magnus is as crazy as they come. This dickhead is acting like this is entertaining, like it's all a joke - and other people's pain _is_ funny, but something about the way he enjoys Pickles' struggling really pisses the bassist off.

The three of them enter the stadium, and Murderface takes his seat between Magnus and Skwisgaar. When they were on the outs, Murderface had tried his hardest not to watch Pickles perform - it always brought up too much jealousy, too many gay thoughts, but. Since touring with Snakes, honestly, it’s...well, Murderface has spent this entire time being painfully jealous of Pickles. And don’t get him wrong, he still is - but he feels a weird sense of pride, when the crowd gets a glance of the lead singer and goes fucking hysterical for him. 

MTV advertises Pickles as one of the best lead singers to ever grace the stages of rock and roll, as a guy who was born to perform and who always blows the entire crowd away. While the fans still go rabid for him, mindless and doll-eyed as he stumbles onstage, Murderface can instantly tell that everything is all wrong. It gets worse and worse every show - the way Pickles slurs through all the lyrics, head lolling, unenthusiastic and barely able to stand. The rest of his bandmates aren't any better - Tony is drunk out of his mind as he picks sloppily at his bass, Sammy is half-hysterical and vibrating on speed as he crashes randomly on his drums, and Snazz's left side of his face seems dangerously unsimilar to his right as he stands there almost blankly. They're the most popular glam rock band in the country, and they're just shitting it all away. And their fans _still_ love them, still go wild with cheering and screaming when the first song ends.

"Pickle ams real fucksed up, Moidaface. You gots a weird types,” Skwisgaar leans over and comments. “You knows, If I’s ams goingks to swings dat weys, I porsonally am more into the musculars types, with de blue eyes and de brown hairs—“ 

“I am NOT into Picklesch!” Murderface hisses violently, eyes breaking away from the singer and darting around nervously. "Why do you keep--?"

“Man, and you wonder why I don’t miss a show,” Magnus nudges Murderface from the other side, snapping him away from Skwisgaar, looking all dark and dreamy-eyed as Pickles flashes the crowd a drowsy, crooked grin, still looking impossibly hot as he belts out lyrics and staggers around in his thigh-high stilletos. It’s kind of off-putting, seeing the way his stormy eyes gaze at Pickles, like he’s stalking out his prey or something. 

“Yeah, definitely waschn’t wondering,” Murderface mutters, trying to keep his eyes on the performance so this dickhead doesn’t keep trying to talk to him. Murderface, personally, does not like Magnus. But when the four of them all pal around together, it isn't...bad. It _works_. There's some sort of chemistry there - when Magnus worms his way in, charms you and gets into your head, it's hard to push him out. Pickles is in too deep, but Murderface is aware of it, so he can keep him out. Right?

Apparently not.

“So. You and Pickles ever...hm, I dunno. Kissed before?” Magnus asks, leaning forward on an elbow, and Murderface’s throat locks up as his entire body instantly jolts with a cold, hard fear. Does Magnus _know_ ? Did Pickles tell him? He’s never told another _soul_ about the time where he and Pickles locked lips, young and stupid and sprawled out on the floor of their shitty apartment. It might be the fondest moment of his calloused and brutal life, but he’d definitely _never_ fucking admit to it happening. 

But god, now he’s _thinking_ about it. About Pickles’ small hands in his curly hair, his warm lips easily pushing and pulling against Murderface’s own chapped ones - he’d looked at him like he _wanted_ him. And Murderface would be lying if he said he didn’t wonder if Pickles ever thought about it too, if it kept him awake as much as it kept—

Magnus smiles all catlike, looking like a kid in a goddamn misery candy store, as he lilts, “Something wrong, Will?” 

“Uhh...well. I juscht...” He swallows, getting all twitchy, because on one hand he’s impossibly pissed that Pickles is acting like they didn’t make our, but on the other, if he admits to them locking lips, that’s basically admitting he’s gay. He settles on, “If we did, which we _haven’t_ becausch thatsch _gay_ , I don’t remember. And it didn’t mean anything. Scho, yeah. Fuck you.” 

Fuck. That really got away from him, didn’t it? He’s blushing like a madman as he violently picks at his own fingernails, and he can feel Magnus' dark eyes looking at him in that calculated, dangerous way that sends a shiver straight up his spine. He dares to meet Magnus' eyes, and then the other man's face...changes. It goes completely dark, all the lights snapping off, and the bassist's back straightens in fear as Magnus puts an arm around his shoulder, gesturing with his chin towards the stage, “Look at Tony. God, the guy’s hopeless, huh?” Murderface does look, to see the bassist watching Pickles with longing puppy eyes, looking completely lovesick. “Yeah, you know - jealous types like that, they don’t really make it long, anyways. Should probably watch his back, y'know?"

And then Magnus looks at him. Challengingly. Murderface stares back at him like he's insane, suddenly too fearful to shrug his arm off. But in the next minute, the lights behind his eyes come back on, and Magnus is cool as ever as he leans back in his seat and watches the show. God, if something in Pickles' life doesn't change soon, it's all going to be over way too quick, isn't it?

-

“And what ams yous name?” Skwisgaar asks, flipping his blonde hair back over his shoulder as he leans back in his chair. Murderface has no idea why he’s taking auditions for Financially Raped’s lead singer so seriously - he’d have had Pickles try out, because his voice sounds like a chorus of ten-thousand beautiful death angels, but. That’s the thing - his voice is too sing-songy and perfect for a position that requires such grating brutality. And honestly, Murderface had already tried to play that angle, because pulling the redhead out of the toxcicity of Snakes 'n Barrels while also finally getting his dream of them being in a band together sounds great. It _should_ be the perfect plan - Pickles is clearly over glam rock, he's expressed on multiple occasions that he wants heavier music...but he insists that he'll never be a frontman again. Skwisgaar is already the guitarist, so what else would be left for him?

Said beautiful blonde Swede hasn’t been impressed with anyone who’s auditioned so far - not surprising - and ever since Financially Raped had made the headlines with the whole “bass player getting his hand chopped off” thing, their band had been getting some attention. A far amount of people had tried out, but Skwisgaar just wasn’t having it, and was getting ncreasingly frustrated. So when it's time for their last audition of the night, Murderface doesn’t even bother looking up from his magazine when a voice grumbles into the microphone. 

“Uh. I’m, uh, Nathan,” the voice says, clearly nervous, and the microphone screeches with feedback. “So. I looked at song I’m supposed to audition with, and uhhh. No.” 

Murderface licks his finger as he turns the page of his magazine. Skwisgaar sounds incredulous, “Euuhh, I thinks I ams hearingks you wrongs. _Noes_?” 

“Yeah, it’s not brutal enough,” the guy growls, and Murderface shakes his head with a little laugh, because he’s already fucked himself royally. You never tell Skwisgaar anything he does isn’t perfect, especially when it comes to music, so. Yeah, this guy is screwed. He still continues, however, “This is something that I, um. Wrote.” 

“Pssh. Yeeuh, let’s hear its,” Skwisgaar’s voice is laced with amusement as he waves a hand, and everything is silent for a minute before this guy just...destroys the entire room with just the sound of his voice. He tears them all open, death growling out these fucking brutal, hardcore lyrics about death and destruction and decapitation, and Murderface looks over to see Skwisgaar impressed for the first time in the year he’s known the guy. 

So, Murderface puts down the copy of Smokearooni Aficionado he’d been thumbing through, and he watches the rest of the audition. His first thought, when he sees Nathan growling and flipping his dark curtain of hair, is - _Pickles would fucking love this guy._ Dark hair, bulging muscles, a silent intensity - but there's more to it than that. Even as he growls and snarls into the microphone, the bassist can tell that there's something...soft, about his eyes. Tony’s eyes are empty, Magnus’ are psychotic - but this guy’s are soft. He clutches at the mic, and his big hands are gentle. He's not high or weilding knives, there's no trackmarks in his arm...maybe _he's_ the change that could pull Pickles out of the pits of rockstar hell. Maybe Murderface has been wanting to be the hero, but maybe the most heroic thing he could do is step aside and let someone else take the reigns...

But no. What is he thinking? He's _selfish_. He's a dick. Those are his defining character traits, and if he were to ask Pickles to join his band, and introduce him to someone he's guaranteed to fall in love with, what would Murderface get out of that? Being the hero is supposed to result in him getting laid, which definitely isn't going to happen if he introduces them. So why do it? Something deep in his gut tells him this kid would be _it_ for Pickles - there would be no jealousy, no conflict, because it would be the end of it all. Things are about to go back to normal - Pickles will be a regular jackoff again once Snakes wraps up, and they could go back to their lives of mediocrity. But...if he keeps on with the drugs, and with Magnus...would he even make it that long? 

"--gots a celebrities connection, you knows. You ever hord of de Snakes and Barrel?" Skwisgaar's voice pops Murderface's reverie like a bubble, and Murderface sees Nathan's eyes light up at the mention of the band. "Moidaface's best buddies ams Pickle. We pals arounds with him sometime, so. We de real deals."

"You guys, uh. You guys know...Pickles?" Nathan asks, green eyes glancing between the two of them before dropping away, this splotchy blush coming across his face, and there it is. Fuck. Skwisgaar leans over and whispers _'we gots to haves him in de band_ ,' and he pinches his temples because he knows _exacly_ how this is going to go down, and it's going to be all his own fault. But he can wait. He can push it off, he can keep them away from each other for as long as he can.

"Looksch like you got the schpot, Tonto."

-

“William Murderface?” A doctor-sounding guy greets him on the other line, and he instantly bristles. “This is Dr. Schneider from Tampa General Hospital.”

“Uhhh, why the fuck are you calling me,” Murderface deadpans, eyes narrowed, because there’s nobody on earth he trusts less than a goddamn doctor. “I don’t want a goddamn proschtate exam, I learned my lesscon from lascht time—“

“You're listed as Pickles’ emergency contact, and we found where you're staying” the doctor says, and Murderface’s eyes instantly widen in surprise. “We have him here, ah...he’s overdosed on heroin, Mr. Murderface. And cocaine, and meth, and well...just about everything in the book, honestly. If I wasn’t a doctor I’d say it’s almost impressive.”

“Fucking—! Goddamnit, Picklesch!” Murderface sputters, clutching at the phone in shock. “Fuck! Alright, alright, fuck. Isch he going to be okay? Jeesush!”

“He’s unconscious, and he’s in pretty rough shape. The paparazzi has been trying to bust into the hospital and find out which band member has overdosed, but we’re trying to get him better with the utmost discretion.”

“Ugh, god. What the fuck,” Murderface presses a palm against his forehead, feeling stressed and sick to his stomach and...afraid, maybe? Guilty for being a jealous prick and not doing something sooner to get him away from Magnus? What if Pickles fucking dies? Is this his fault for leaving him to the wolves? For not doing something for his friend sooner?  


Murderface, as previously stated, doesn’t like getting himself into physical altercations. If he really did need to hit someone, he figured he’d like. Hire a guy to do it for him, or something. But by the time he rolls up on Pickles’ old motorcycle to the hospital, he’s pretty fucking ready to crack some skulls. He shoves his way through the sea of reporters and fans and paparazzi, face gravely serious. Fucking Magnus gets Pickles, he _gets Pickles_ , and what does he do? Fucking kills him? But then. He gets to the waiting room, and nobody's fucking there. Magnus must have _ditched him_.  


They won't let him in to see Pickles while he's in critical, so Murderface sits in the empty waiting room by himself. The hours tick by, and nobody ever comes. Not Magnus, not Tony, not Sammy or Snazz. When the news hits the media that Pickles was the one who overdosed, it doesn't take long for them to track down the rest of the band for an interview. _"Pickles needs help_ ," Tony says when a microphone is shoved underneath his nose, and it makes Murderface's blood boil. _"And I don't think Snakes 'n Barrels is going to bounce back from this_ , _honestly._ " 

He sits there for eight hours, before he storms over to the nearest payphone, and he dials the number back to his own hotel room. He knows what he has to do, but he really, really doesn’t want to have to do it. He’s been avoiding it this entire time, because he knows that once he introduces Pickles and Nathan, he’ll have made the biggest mistake of his life.  Pickles is going to get better - but he's going to fall in love, for _real_ , and anyone else who ever wanted a chance is going to get shat on in the process. But it means _Magnus_ will be shat on right along with him, and if Murderface is going down, then so is he. 

"Hullos?" Skwisgaar's thick accent rings through his ears. 

"Yeah, hey. Tell our drummer to get the fuck out," Murderface sighs, heart already cracking as he rests his forehead against the wall. "Picklesch is gonna go to rehab, and then he'sch gonna drum for usch." 

"Moidaface, you knows Magnus ams not gonna let Pickle does dat without hims," Skwisgaar says, almost sounding concerned. 

So, looks like the blonde has seen how the other guitarist puppateers Pickles as well, and Murderface is almost surprised at his perceptivness. This just drives him on, as he snarls, "You're gonna have to deal with a schecond guitarischt, then. He'sch not gonna lascht long, anywaysch." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the one fic i write where skwis just sits back and enjoys not being elbow-deep in drama LMAO

**Author's Note:**

> pickles is young mface's "get thee hence" just a trainwreck that he has to take care of hahahaha


End file.
